


Dolor Principi

by SerenLyall



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (let's get those big ones out of the way lol), Dismemberment, F/M, Politics, Sex, Torture, warfare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-06 04:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16825339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLyall/pseuds/SerenLyall
Summary: In the first months of the Clone Wars, Prince Bail Organa of Alderaan went to Christophsis to provide aid to suffering civilians and refugees. However, there was more to that story than was told to the general public. Much more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in the works since the summer, and has been in my mind for much longer than that. It's not done yet, but I'm a good 15k in (when I started it I was like "It'll just be like 10k or so"...yeah, lol), and I'm getting to the point where I really want some feedback on it to keep me going. So, I'm posting the prologue. I hope you enjoy - and I hope you'll let me know what you think!

DOLOR PRINCIPI

or

A World of Fire and Blood

PROLOGUE

Chancellor Sheev Palpatine stands with his back to his desk, hands locked behind him, and stares out of the windows and at the low-hanging clouds threatening rain. His heart churns within him, a roiling pit of vipers. 

The galaxy hangs on a knife’s edge—and he can feel it.

Not for the first time in the last few months does Palpatine close his eyes and listen to the Force. It screams and wails at him, a hundred thousand voices all vying for his attention, his ears, his mind.  _ Listen, _ they scream.  _ Listen, listen, listen… _

He listens.

He hears a baby’s pitiful cries.

He hears a man’s mechanical breathing.

He hears blastershots.

He hears three billion voices all crying out as one.

He hears a woman he knows speaking to a man he does not.

Palpatine opens his eyes, and finds his nails digging crescents into the palms of his hands. 

Those same six images—or, rather, hearings—have plagued him for years, ever since his plans to take over the galaxy blossomed and became fully formed. He understood none of them then—and still, though he refuses to admit this even to himself, does not understand most of them now.

The only thing he does know for certain is that the woman, Padmé Amidala, has something to do with whether or not his plans will succeed or fail—as does the man. The man who Palpatine had not known even existed, except as a concept, until three months ago, when Bail Organa announced his candidacy for the Alderaanian Senatorial race.

Palpatine had been in his office, a news channel turned on on his viewscreen as he worked. A thunderstorm had been lashing the windows behind him, creating a soft, melodic counterpoint to the droning of the news anchor’s voice in the background. Then, very suddenly, Palpatine’s head had shot up, his ears ringing, his blood thundering.

The voice he had only ever heard in his Force visions rang out from the viewscreen, large and loud and terribly, terribly real.

He looked up, to see Prince Bail Organa of Alderaan—a man he had been tangentially aware of as an entity, if not as a living, breathing being—standing behind a podium on a platform outside of the palace in Aldera. The sun was bright there, shining down on his dark hair and dark eyes, making his olive skin glow.

_ “My uncle has requested that I take his place as Senator of Alderaan,” _ Prince Bail Organa of Alderaan was saying.  _ “I will honor his wishes—just as I will honor the wishes of my people of Alderaan, if I am elected as Senator.” _

A great cheer went up from the crowd watching the Prince’s speech, even as the screen switched back to the anchor in the studio.  _ “As we can see, Prince Bail Organa, husband to Queen Breha II, has added his name to the list of candidates for this fall’s senatorial race on Alderaan. His uncle, Bail Antilles IV, Alderaan’s current Senator, has come forward to state that he endorses his nephew, who he hopes will replace him at next year’s Senate—” _

Palpatine had turned off the viewscreen and stood abruptly, all work forgotten. He had searched in vain for years for the man whose voice he had first heard in dreams. Now, very suddenly, he found himself come into nearly direct contact with him—or, he would, if Bail Organa was elected Senator.

Somehow, he suspected he would.

A knock comes at the door, shaking Palpatine out of his reverie. Palpatine turns and calls, “Come in.” His aide enters.

“Yes?” Palpatine snaps, unhappy to be broken from his thoughts.

“You asked to know the results of Alderaan’s Senatorial race,” says the boy.

“And?” Palpatine asks, fighting to keep his temper from boiling over.

“Prince Bail Organa won.”

“Very well,” Palpatine says, and motions for the boy to leave. He does so, closing the door behind him.

_ So _ , thinks Palpatine,  _ the players continue to fall into place. _

But was this a good thing, or a bad one? Would Bail Organa cement his place in the galaxy, or would he tear it down? 

Could he leave such things to chance?

_ No, _ Palpatine decides, just as he had decided every time before. _No, I cannot. This man is dangerous. The Force is not with him, but it screams around him. He holds the balance to the galaxy’s future in the palm of his hand—or, at least, one of the balances. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, and Padmé Amidala_ hold others.

Palpatine grinds his teeth. The old adage, “Keep your friends close but your enemies closer” comes to mind.

But will this man be friend or foe?

Palpatine shakes his head. It does not matter. Regardless, Bail Organa must die. Only his death will ensure that he does not interfere with Palpatine’s plans.

Yes. Bail Organa must die, and soon.


	2. CHAPTER 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sheev Palpatine politiques, and Breha Organa has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two quick things: 1) Please do note the warnings on this fic. It will be graphically violent, though not for a while yet. 2) If you're reading this later down the line, Obi-Wan and Anakin *are* in this story, just not for a while... But yes, they are in it, and will be major characters.
> 
> Huge thanks to the three of you who commented last chapter! I hope you'll continue to read and enjoy!

CHAPTER 1

_ “I’m just not sure this is a good idea, Bail.” _ The Chancellor’s head and shoulders shine blue through the holographic projection, the image wavering and distorting for a second before reforming firm and strong. His face is serious, his expression grim, and his eyes shine deep and dark beneath his pronounced brow.  _ “The Separatists—” _

“The Separatists are the reason I have to go,” Bail Organa says. 

Alderaan’s Prince and Senator is resplendent in his court finery: a black tunic embroidered with gold and violet flowering vines, black breeches, knee-high boots, and a sheer violet robe that drifts around his shoulders and down his back with the weight of a waterfall. A thin circlet of silver set with amethysts rests on his brow, and bruises darken the underside of his eyes, giving him a gaunt, tired look that is made more pronounced by the lines around his eyes and mouth. He is exhausted, both physically and mentally, and it shows. 

“The people of Christophsis are  _ suffering _ , Chancellor,” Bail continues. “I’m in a position where I can do something about that suffering—and, therefore, I must.”

_ “No,” _ says Chancellor Palpatine.  _ “There is no ‘therefore’. It is dangerous, and you are too important a person to risk. Let someone go in your stead.” _

“I’ve made up my mind, Chancellor.”

A sigh.  _ “Then at least do the Republic your service, and convince Christophsis to join us in the war.” _

Bail shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Chancellor, but this is not a political envoy. This is a relief mission. I will not be playing politics here.”

_ “Your actions do not exist in a vacuum,” _ Chancellor Palpatine reminds Bail.  _ “Regardless of your intent, your actions will carry a political connotation. As a Senator, you are a vassal of the Republic—” _

“And while that may be true,” Bail puts in smoothly, “my aid of the people will not be reliant on their agreement to join us.”

_ “I would never suggest such a thing,” _ Chancellor Palpatine says, sounding affronted, though there is a sneaking undertone to his words that Bail doesn’t like.  _ “But you could remind them that you, a Prince and Senator for one of the Republic’s leading political entities, are the one helping them.” _

“I am not doing this as a political move,” Bail says stubbornly. “I am bringing aid to these people because they need it, and for no other reason that that.”

_ “You aren’t going to budge on this subject, are you?” _ the Chancellor asks, tired and wry.

“No,” Bail says. “I am not.”

_ “At least take a Clone platoon with you,” _ Chancellor Palpatine says.  _ “For my peace of mind—and for the peace of mind of your people.” _

“I’m bringing a squad of Alderaanian guards with me,” Bail tells the Chancellor, “along with a fully-staffed Corvette crew.”

_ “Please, Bail,” _ Chancellor Palpatine says.  _ “Accept my offer of protection. You never know, the Clones may come in handy, even if there is no fighting.” _

“I think it’s a bad idea,” Bail says. “It could be misconstrued as an act of the Republic—which it is not supposed to be.”

_ “They will only be there for protection and help,” _ Chancellor Palpatine says.  _ “You have made it clear, I trust—or will make it clear—that this is an Alderaanian operation. Therefore I don’t think the Clones will be an issue.” _

Bail sighs. “Very well,” he relents. He grins without mirth. “I think it’s a bad idea, but you aren’t going to budge on this subject, are you?”

The Chancellor laughs.  _ “No,” _ he says.  _ “I’m not.” _

“Very well,” Bail says again. “When can I expect them by?”

_ “Two days,” _ says Chancellor Palpatine.  _ “I hope you can bide your time ‘til then?” _

“I have plenty of work to keep me busy,” Bail promises. He pauses, then says, “Thank you, Chancellor.”

Chancellor Palpatine smiles.  _ “Anything for you, my friend,” _ he says.  _ “Until next time.” _

“Farewell,” Bail says, and reaches forward to turn off the holographic comm unit built into the top of his desk near the far side.

He leans back in his high-backed chair, then instead stands and turns toward the large wall of windows arrayed behind him. He moves to stand in front of them, locking his hands behind his back. 

The Chancellor’s words echo in Bail’s mind as he looks down at the gardens over which the windows look. The flowering hedges are in full bloom in the mountain’s spring, red and white and gauzy pink. Between the hedges are walkways of flagstone and gravel, linking small courtyards sporting fountains and statues.

He did not like how pushy the Chancellor had been, Bail thinks, rubbing a thumb over the knuckles of his opposite hand. In the end he had relented—for which Bail is relieved—but his tone had carried an ugly undercurrent. It had been subtle and sly, barely a single off-key note, but it had been there, sneaking in its acidity and danger. Palpatine had wanted him to push for Christophsis’s joining the Republic—had wanted it badly.

Bail fears that Palpatine’s insistence that he take a Clone detachment is only another political ploy. With the Clones there, there will be an ever-present reminder of just  _ who _ is giving the aid to the Christophsians. 

Still, if the Clones are the price he must pay for the Chancellor’s blessing, it is a price Bail is willing to pay.  _ It will be nice _ , he reflects, _ to have some added help _ .

There comes a knock on the door to Bail’s study, and he turns, calling, “Enter.” The door opens, and his wife, Queen Breha II, walks through it.

She is not happy. Her face is set, the lift of her chin regal, and her eyes flash in the bright afternoon sunlight. She is clad in a blue-and-gold brocade dress, her hair braided with garlands of wildflowers. The skirts rustle as she strides into the room, and comes to stand directly across from Bail.

“Why was I just informed that my dear husband is going on a relief mission that I had no knowledge of?” she demands.

Bail blushes. “I was going to tell you,” he says quickly.

“When?” Breha asks sharply. “Tonight? Tomorrow? The day you left?”

“Tonight,” Bail says hastily. “I didn’t even know I was going on it until today, when we received reports about the crisis on Christophsis. I’m sorry, love. I wanted to talk to you about it, but plans had to be set in motion at once in order to ensure speedy relief, and—”

Breha sighs, cutting him off. “I’m not upset that you’re  _ going _ —well, no, I am. This is a dangerous move, Bail, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You could order me not to go,” Bail points out. “As my Queen, I would have to obey you.”

Breha shakes her head. “You are my  _ husband _ ,” she says. “Where I could order any other man not to go, with you I have to respect your wishes. Or at least I do if I want our marriage to last.”

Bail laughs humorlessly. “Our marriage would last whether we wanted it to or not—the Alderaanian people would demand it. But I see your point.”

“I just wish it had been  _ you _ that told me about this. Not Malothar.”

Bail clenches his hands tightly together, silently promising retribution on his friend.

Malothar Morieen is the Captain of Alderaan’s Honor Guards: twenty of Alderaan’s finest warriors, who train from ages twelve to twenty-two, and who are sworn to defend the royal family’s life and honor with their last breath. He and Bail have been friends since Bail first moved into the Palace at age 19, shortly before he married Breha; he was, in fact, Bail’s first friend in the Palace. Then only an Honor Guard for a year and a half, he had taken pity on Bail’s discomfort with the nobility, and had stepped in to teach him the ways of court.

Now, however, all Bail can think of is how he is going to strangle him for telling Breha about the relief mission before he had a chance.

“Don’t be mad at Malothar,” Breha says, correctly guessing his line of thought. “I assume he believed you had already told me—which you  _ should _ have. I should have been the first person you contacted after making the decision. You know I would have supported you.”

“You were in a meeting with the Ministers of Transportation,” Bail says. He sighs. “But you’re right. And I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Breha smiles and says, “Of course I can, Bail. All I wanted was an apology—and a promise to tell me first next time.”

Bail cuts around the edge of his desk and crosses to stand before his wife. “Of course I will,” he promises. Then, dryly, he adds, “I’ve learned my lesson.”

Breha’s smile widens. “Good,” she says, and steps forward and into the circle of his arms. She hugs him tightly. “I don’t suppose I can dissuade you from going?” she asks into his chest.

Bail hugs her tightly and says, “No. The Christophsians—they need our help. Desperately.”

Breha nods, her head still against Bail’s chest. “I thought that’s what you would say.” She pulls away and looks up at him. “Just promise me you’ll be careful?” she begs.

“Of course I will.”

“Good,” Breha says with a weak smile. Then she leans forward and presses a kiss to Bail’s lips. “I have one more meeting this evening before dinner. I’ll see you later.”

Bail catches her around the waist as she turns to leave, drawing her back to him. “I love you,” he says, and captures her face with both of his hands, kissing her longer and deeper. 

“I love you too,” Breha says, and pulls away. “See you at dinner.”

Bail watches her go and, feeling significantly better, settles back behind his desk and picks up the nearest spy report. He has a lot of work to do before dinner.

~oOo~

That night, Breha wakes Bail with a scream.

He sits up quickly, already reaching for the bedside lamp. A second later light spills through the large bedroom, chasing away the shadows and the night’s terror. “Breha,” he says, turning toward her and touching her on the shoulder. “Breha, wake up.”

She screams again, then gasps awake. Rolling over, she sees Bail sitting above her—and reaches for him. He pulls her upright and into his arms, and Breha clings to him, sweaty and trembling.

“Bail,” she says, over and over again into his nightshirt. “Bail, Bail, Bail…”

“I’m here, Bre,” Bail murmurs, running a hand through her hair and down her back. “Shhh, Bre. I’m here.”

Abruptly, Breha begins to cry. This startles Bail, and then scares him. While Breha is an emotional woman, it takes a great deal to make her cry.

“Breha?” he asks, pulling back just enough that he can see her face. “Breha, what’s wrong?”

“I thought you were dead,” she says through her sobs. “I saw you—and then…”

“Shhh,” Bail croons, pulling her against him once more and rocking her gently. “Shhh, it’s alright. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m not dead.”

Slowly her tears abate. She sniffs, then pulls away and wipes her face with her hands. Bail stands and goes to the bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp washcloth.

“Here,” he says, sitting down on Breha’s edge of the bed and handing it to her. She takes it gladly and uses it to clean off her face, balling it up in her hands once she’s done and dropping them to her lap. “Now,” Bail says gently, “will you tell me what happened?”

“I dreamed of you,” Breha says. “There was rubble all around you, and you were bleeding. And then I saw you standing with a lightsaber to your throat, a woman I didn’t recognize standing behind you. Then you were screaming, and I saw you lying on the ground.” She begins to cry again. “I thought you were dead.”

“Shhh,” Bail murmurs again, ignoring the wash of cold fear that drains through him at her words, and cups her face with one hand. “It was just a dream,” he says, and presses his forehead to hers. “Just a dream.”

“I don’t think it was,” she says, ducking away. “You know that Queens have the gift of prophetic dream. I’ve had them before.”

“I know,” Bail says. “But you don’t know that this was one of them.”

“It felt like one of them.”

“I’ll be okay,” Bail says, with false surety, turning Breha’s face back to face him. “Look at me, Bre,” he says, and she slowly lifts her eyes to meet his. “I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think you should go on the relief mission,” Breha says, sounding stronger than she has since she awoke.

Bail’s face darkens with a frown. “I have to go,” he says.

“No,” says Breha, “you don’t. Let Malothar lead the mission. He’s gone with you plenty of times; he knows what to do.”

Bail shakes his head. “He doesn’t have as much experience as I do. And with Christophsis in such a delicate situation, they need the best help they can get.”

“But that’s why you shouldn’t go,” Breha protests. “They’re in a delicate situation. One wrong move could land you dead—just like in my dream.”

“You can’t let dreams dictate how you live,” Bail points out. “Besides, for all you know my staying here could be what causes my death. The future is always in flux—you can never tell what choices and decisions lead you where.”

Breha sags. “I know,” she says, sounding miserable. “But...but I can’t lose you, Bail.”

“You’re not going to,” he promises, once more with false surety. He is loath to admit it, but Breha’s dream has rattled him. He only hopes the niggling fear he feels hasn’t crept into his voice.

Breha looks at him, lifts a hand to his cheek. “I  _ can’t _ ,” she says again.

“You aren’t going to,” Bail says again, softly. He leans forward and kisses her tenderly. “I promise,” he says when he breaks the kiss.

Breha leans in and kisses him again. “Show me you’re here,” she whispers against his lips. “Show me you’re really here. Really okay.”

Bail brings his hands up to cup Breha’s face and he kisses her long and hard. She kisses him back, tongue sliding against his and into his mouth, prying deep and possessive. Bail smiles against the kiss, rejoicing and reveling in the need of it—and then, pushing her gently and carefully, he presses Breha down to the soft mattress of their bed.

“I love you,” he says, when they break apart for air. He leans down, ghosting a kiss against the hollow of Breha’s throat, another on each of her collarbones, then another between her breasts.

“Kiss me,” Breha orders, taking a moment to stroke her fingers through Bail’s thick hair.

“As you wish, my queen,” Bail murmurs, and returns his attention to her lips.

They kiss long and hard, Bail running a thumb up and down Breha’s cheek. She holds him close, hands wrapped around the back of his head and threaded through his hair. When they part, Bail leans close and presses a kiss to the edge of Breha’s lips, another to her cheek, another to her jaw beneath her ear.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, sliding a hand between her legs and down into her folds. “I’m here, my love, and I’m not going anywhere.” He strokes her, circles her clit, runs a fingernail over it gently. She shudders beneath him, and Bail presses her back down to the pillow with another kiss.

“Everything is going to be just fine,” he promises her. 

“But—”

“Relax, my love,” Bail says. “Let me care for you—let me remind you that I’m here, that I’m real, that I’m alive.”

Breha relaxes against her pillows. Bail’s hand, still between her legs, strokes up and down, rubbing at her clit with a gentle thumb.

“I love you,” he says, and bunches her nightdress up around her hips. Breha bends her knees, ready to cradle Bail against them—but instead Bail settles himself down between her legs. Breha moans at the first lick, her right hand lifting to thread through Bail’s hair as he licks again, then sucks.

“Bail,” she groans, and he feels her back arch, pressing herself against his mouth. He smiles, shivers running through him at the sound of her husky voice.

She orgasms against him a moment later, her body shuddering in release, and she cries out in pleasure, hand fisting in his hair. Bail gives her a moment, then lifts himself up and crawls over her, leaning down to kiss her again.

“I love you,” he says for a third time. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her hand still in his hair, Breha draws Bail down to kiss her again, open-mouthed and hungry. They remain like that for a long moment, captured in each other’s embrace, tongues meeting and matching in their need and desire.

“I want you,” Breha says after the long minute ends, and fumbles for the waistband of his sleep pants. Her thumbs hook around the elastic and she tugs them down, over his hips and around his knees. “Please,” she says, lifting herself off the mattress and pillow enough to kiss him again, quick and sweet. “Give me all of you.”

He slides into her with a groan. Sitting there for a moment, still within her, he simply looks at her, smiling and radiant in the soft light of his bedside lamp. In that moment, she is the most beautiful thing in the world to him; in that moment, she is the most important thing in the galaxy, all need and hope and desire melted into her dark eyes and hanging on her full lips.

“I’m here,” Bail murmurs, and pumps slowly in and out once, twice, three times. “I’m here, my love. And I will always be with you, no matter what happens.” He slides a hand down between her legs and plays with her clit, eliciting a groan of pleasure.

A moment later she moans again, in frustration and desire, as Bail slows further still. He leans down, licking and then sucking on one of her nipples. 

“Bail,” Breha gasps.

“Hm?” he hums against her breast.

“Bail,  _ please _ .”

Bail laughs, light and pleased. 

She rocks her hips against him. “Faster,” Breha says—begs, demands.

Bail laughs again, but he obeys. 

He gives all of himself to her, in the hopes that he will show her the honesty of reality. He will ground her, will remind her that he is here and real, will show to her his love with his body and his heart.

His hand remains between her legs, playing with her gently and lovingly. Still he pumps in and out, falling into a new, faster rhythm. Breha moans again, lifts her hands to wrap around his back, and holds him close. Her nails rake red lines across his broad shoulder blades, marking him with her pleasure.

It only takes another half a minute. Breha cries out Bail’s name in release as she orgasms for a second time, body shuddering and inner walls convulsing around him. Bail follows her a moment later, crashing into his climax with a cry of his own. He collapses to one side, landing on the mattress so that he is not on top of her.

Breha turns onto her side, hooking one leg over Bail’s and pressing close to him. Their noses are almost touching.

“I love you,” she says softly. Her breath is warm against Bail’s nose and cheeks, and he smiles.

“I know,” he says, and leans in to kiss her once more. It is long and languid, and they break only when they need breath.

When they do pull apart, Bail pulls his sleep pants back up over his hips and reaches over to turn out the light. Breha tugs down her nightdress. Then she snuggles against him, her back to his chest, and Bail wraps an arm around her waist, burying his face in her hair.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I needed that.”

“Good night, my love,” Bail says by way of answering, kissing the back of her head.

“Good night, Bail,” Breha replies.

They drift off to sleep.

~oOo~

“I don’t think you should go,” Breha says again over breakfast the next morning. They sit out on the balcony overlooking the near side of the snow-clad caldera, the mountains visible over its lip, bowls of oatmeal, plates of sliced fruit, and pitchers of juice arrayed on the tabletop.

“Breha,” Bail says, quiet but firm, “this is something I have to do.”

“Send someone else,” Breha begs. “Or wait a few months. Or—”

“You know I can’t wait,” Bail says. “And the political situation on Christophsis is tenuous at best. They need someone with a great deal of experience. That’s me.”

“But what if—”

“‘What-ifs’ can’t dictate one’s life,” Bail says. “As I said last night, for all you know my staying here could be what brings my death.”

“I know,” Breha says, sounding miserable. “But…”

“But what?”

“I’m afraid, Bail,” Breha says. “How will I go on without you?”

“Just as you always do,” Bail says, reaching across the table to take one of her hands in his. “With strength, kindness, compassion, and fortitude.”

Breha smiles. “I think you overestimate me.”

“If anything, I  _ under _ estimate you, my love. You are the strongest, most beautiful, kindest, most compassionate woman I have ever met. Even if I do die—and I don’t think I will—you will continue to be those things, even in your grief.”

“I love you,” Breha says softly. “I know you have to go. I  _ know _ you do. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I know, my love,” Bail says. He squeezes her hand. “But you’ll make it through this. I know you will.”

~oOo~

The Clones arrive in a shuttle two days later. They disembark on one of the palace’s four landing pads, all stretched out in a line at the palace’s southern side, carrying duffle bags and carrying cases of weapons and supplies. 

Bail is there to greet them, dressed in official court finery. The last week had been open court days, in which citizens of Alderaan could go to meet and petition their monarchs. While Breha was the prominent figure, tradition also required her Prince to be present.

“Welcome,” Bail says, walking toward the lieutenant, who is standing directing his troops. He extends a hand to the Clone with a smile. “I’m Bail Organa.”

The lieutenant turns towards Bail. Reaching up, he tugs off his helmet, revealing a young man with bleached hair shorn short against his skull and a vine tattoo curling up the left side of his face.

“Hello, Senator,” the lieutenant says. He grips Bail’s hand in a firm handshake and says, “Call me Vine.”

“Good to meet you, Vine. When will your troops be ready to move out?”

“Whenever you’re ready, sir,” Vine says.

“My men are just now finishing loading up the supplies on landing pad two. If you could bring your men there, I will join you shortly.”

Vine salutes. “As you say, sir.” He turns, then calls, “Move out. Landing pad two!”

The Clones fall into straight lines, still bearing their bags and cases, and start walking towards the ramp that connects landing pads one and two. Bail watches them go for a moment, Vine at his side. Then Vine breaks the silence.

“We are honored that we were selected to accompany you to Christophsis,” he says, turning from his men to Bail once more. “We’ll serve you well.”

“I trust that you will,” Bail replies. He smiles, then says, “I will see you shortly, lieutenant.”

With that, Bail turns and walks back into the palace, rising tall and gleaming overhead. The shadows are cool and welcome after the warm afternoon sun, and for a moment he simply stands inside the doors, breathing in the scent of the palace—the peace, the coolness—imprinting sight and sound of his home into his mind. Then he strides forward, girding himself for the farewell to come, and turns right at the hall junction, coming after a long moment to the door leading out to landing pad two.

Breha is waiting for him by the door, Bail’s bag at her feet. A handful of courtiers stand a dozen paces down the hall from her, along with holonews crews carrying holocams and tablets, all of them eager to watch the Prince of Alderaan say goodbye to his wife before going on a mission of mercy.

Bail walks into his wife’s waiting arms, drawing her close to him and hugging her tightly.

“Be well,” Breha says, her eyes shining and dark. In them is a last silent, desperate plea.

Bail leans down and kisses her, ignoring the flash of holocams and the scratch of styluses on tablet screens. 

“I love you,” he says softly—soft enough that no one but Breha can hear. “It will be okay. You’ll see.”

“You don’t know that,” Breha says, just as softly.

Bail shakes his head. “I know,” he says. “But this is something I have to do.”

“I know,” Breha says, and reaches up to kiss him again. She ends the kiss and adds, “Just...be careful.”

“I will,” Bail promises.

He leans down and picks up his bag. Then, with one final smile for his wife, he turns and walks out the door.

~oOo~

The journey from Alderaan to Christophsis takes eight days, most of which is spent on the Corellian Run Hyperlane. Bail uses those days to finish plotting his actions on Christophsis and to brief both his own men and the Clone platoon accompanying them.

“We meet with the Oligarchs first thing upon landing,” Bail tells them all, standing on a crate in the hangar bay of the CR70 Corvette the  _ Valediction _ , now only filled with the two speeders the Alderaanians brought, and the nearly two hundred people that made up Bail’s crisis aid team. The Clones and Alderaanians are spread out before him, clumped together in small groups, Alderaanians to his left and before him, Clones in a small pocket to his right. “Until we receive their blessing to provide aid to their people, our hands are virtually bound—and they have refused to do that save in person.”

“And do you expect them to say no?” Malothar asks. 

He had always been slated to accompany Bail on the mission, though Breha had made it a royal order the morning after her nightmare.

“You aren’t going without protection, Bail,” she had said. 

“I’m not,” Bail reminded her. “I have a platoon of Clones, as well as a squad of Alderaanian guards.”

“Malothar is accompanying you,” Breha said, and it was not a request.

“Of course,” Bail said. “We were already planning on it.”

Now Bail looks at Malothar, standing with the other hundred and fifty Alderaanians he had brought with him—not counting the captain, copilot, and crew who are manning the ship—and says, “No, I don’t expect them to say no. Their people are starving and suffering. They would be fools to refuse us. And, while their Oligarchy is arrogant and proud, they are not stupid.”

“What then?” Vine asks. “We don’t have enough supplies to feed an entire planet—so how are we distributing the supplies? How are we deciding who gets what?”

“There are four refugee camps and five triage hospitals spread across the main continent, which is where the Separatists have landed. I have already spoken with the General of the fleet blockading the planet, and as we are a non-affiliated relief mission, he is allowing us passage through. Same with the ground forces General.”

“Seems risky,” says Vine.

“It is,” Bail says bluntly. “I make no attempt to hide that fact. We will all be in danger. But these people need our help. I think that’s worth a little risk.

“We will be moving from north to south, making a large circle, hitting each successive camp and hospital. The last one we will hit is a refugee camp outside of Chaleydonia. We will remain there for a fortnight, maintaining contact with the other locations, lending whatever aid we can.”

There is a shift among the Clones, a whispered rustle that passes from the back to the front. Before Bail can ask what it is about, however, Vine asks, “What kind of aid?” 

Bail wonders who asked the question first. He also wishes they had asked him outright—though he realizes, with a knot in his stomach, that these Clones neither know nor trust him. Why  _ should _ they be comfortable enough to speak up against him, unknown Senator and Prince as he is? Hasn’t he known many a Senator or Prince who would balk at being addressed directly by one they consider “lower” than them?

“Transportation,” Bail says by way of answer. “Construction. An extra set of hands where needed.” He nods towards the platoon’s medic—an already grizzled Clone named Fortnight, who has a scar on his cheek and neck from a training accident—and the five doctors he had brought along, and says, “Extra doctors, if needed.”

There are nods among the Clones. The Alderaanians remain impassive; Bail had brought along a crew made up entirely of men and women who had accompanied him on relief missions before, and who were therefore accustomed to the kind of work that lay before them.

While he is always supportive of young people gaining new experience, he, Breha, and Malothar had all come to the agreement that this was not the time to bring in an inexperienced crewman. With Breha’s dream and the tenuous position Christophsis lay in, they deemed it too dangerous for new hands—though that was not to say that any of Bail’s relief missions were free from danger. This particular mission, however, poses a greater threat than any Bail has been on before.

“Any further questions?” Bail asks, clasping his hands behind his back.

“What’s for dinner?” an Alderaanian—Bail thinks it is Clarien, one of the guards he brought along, though he cannot be certain amid the sea of faces—calls.

Bail grins. The Clones look startled and a little bit uncomfortable. Bail answers, “I believe it’s bantha burgers.”

There is a cheer from the Alderaanians. Again the Clones look startled and uncomfortable, though a few begin to grin as the cheer dies down.

“Thank you for your attention,” Bail says. “You are all dismissed.”

Bail steps off of the crate and motions Vine and Malothar to him. “Join me in my office?” he asks them softly as Clones and Alderaanians stream around him and out of the door.

The walk to his office is brief and silent. It is only when the door is closed and Bail is seated behind his desk, Malothar and Vine claiming the chairs bolted to the floor opposite him, that he speaks.

“This is a dangerous mission,” he says. “Even with the Clones, we will not have enough firepower to truly defend ourselves against a full-scale assault, which I fear is what we will face before the end. The grace on which we stand is tenuous at best, doomed to fail at worst. If that happens, we need to have a plan set in place.”

“Our first—and only—directive is to keep you safe, sir,” Vine says. “So I think our plan should be to run if it looks like there’s going to be an assault.”

“By agreeing to come on this relief mission,” Bail says, voice hard and edged with steel, “you agreed to take on  _ my  _ directives. And my main concern is for the refugees.”

“They may just march on by if we aren’t there,” Malothar points out. He leans forward in his chair, bracing one elbow on a knee, gesturing with the other hand. “If there is a battle to be had, then it is likely going to be over our involvement. Therefore our best bet would be to leave, just like Vine here said.”

“And if it’s not our involvement that incited it?” Bail asks. “If they kill everyone anyway?”

Malothar shifts uncomfortably. Vine remains still and grim-faced.

“Then that blood is on our hands,” Vine says at last. “That’s something I can live with, if that means keeping you safe.”

“One life isn’t more important than another,” Bail retorts, standing abruptly and turning to the bookshelf built into the wall beside his desk. “You keep acting like mine is worth more than—”

“It is, sir,” Vine retorts, voice hotter than Bail has yet to hear it. “You are not only a Senator, but also a Prince—Senator and Prince of one of the most politically powerful and socially influential planets in the Republic. If something were to happen to you, then that would deal a grievous blow to the Republic’s morale. So yes, sir. Your life  _ is _ more important than some unknown refugee’s.”

Bail whirls back around, eyes flashing. “My life is no more important than any  _ one _ of those refugees’.”

“You’ll forgive me for saying this,” Vine said, still grim-faced but with his voice rising, “but you’re wrong.”

“Sire,” Malothar says, standing as well and coming between Vine and Bail, “Vine is right. The deaths of even a thousand refugees will not impact the galaxy on such a scale as if something happens to you.

Bail huffs in annoyance, but turns and sits in his chair once more. “It’s not fair,” he says, feeling like a petulant, whining child as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“No, sir, it’s not,” Vine says. “But it’s the way it is.”

“So if there is an assault, we just...what, run?” Bail asks. “Like cowards?”

“To save your life, sir,” Vine says, “yes.”

“Very well,” Bail says, too fast and too sharp. “We have our contingency plan. You are both dismissed.”

Vine stands and snaps a sharp salute, then turns on his heel and leaves the office. Malothar, however, remains where he is standing.

Bail looks at him, one eyebrow cocked. “What is it?” he asks.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Malothar says. “I know you are uncomfortable with this.”

“‘Uncomfortable’ is hardly the word I’d use.”

“Then what word would you use?”

“Furious,” Bail says. “And devastated, because what has the galaxy come to if one life means more than any other? But mostly furious.”

“I’m sorry,” Malothar says again. “But I really do think it is the best plan. The Queen ordered me to keep you safe—and I will obey the orders of my Queen even unto death. Which means your safety comes first, before anything else.”

Bail shakes his head. “There’s nothing I can say to dissuade you, is there?” he asks.

Malothar grins without humor. “No,” he says bluntly. “There is not.”

Bail nods. “Very well.” He straightens in his chair. “You’re dismissed now, Malothar. I have more work to do before we arrive tomorrow.”

Malothar bows. “As you wish, sire,” he says, and departs as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think? Please let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> So, what did you think? I hope you'll let me know! Next chapter will (hopefully) be on the way in the next week or so, and is MUCH longer than the prologue. I miiiight be persuaded to update sooner than that, though. ;) So let me know what you thought!


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